


Orchids and Pink Bandaids

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, Inspired by a discussion on an earlier prompt. I want to see Robert with James and Philippa, with the kids being generally adorable and Robert being unsure of how to interact with them. Cobb hovers a little, and is charmed by the whole thing. Bonus for little-kid hugs. :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orchids and Pink Bandaids

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Oh, no, I didn’t!

Robert stands at Dom's door for fifteen minutes before he has the guts to ring the bell—and when he does, a high, childish scream goes up from behind it.  
  
More than a little horrified, Robert's ready to drop the orchids he'd brought, and break out his cellphone to dial 911. But the door is suddenly swung open by a small, blond boy who's panting hard.  
  
Apparently that shrill sound was coming from him.  
  
"Um," Robert says, smiling and holding out the flowers, which the boy squints up at in a very familiar way. "Would you be James?"  
  
Instead of answering, the boy takes a deep breath and screams again: "She's  _killing_  meeeeee!" His eyes roll frantically and he darts back down the long, dim hallway. As he passes the first entryway in the hall, a blonde girl runs out, hot on his heels, chasing him up the stairs. She’s screaming, as well, but so high and shrill Robert can't actually make out words, just slight tonal differences.  
  
And hot on  _her_  heels comes Dom, dressed only in ratty jeans and a t-shirt that probably saw its best days during the Clinton administration. The  _first_  one. He glances at the door, seeming to barely notice that it’s open, let alone that someone is standing there— _let alone_  that that someone is his sort-of-boyfriend.  
  
Then he double-takes, halfway up the stairs.  
  
“Robert!” he exclaims, a little out of breath, but smiling. “You’re early!”  
  
“Actually, I’m . . . fifteen minutes late,” Robert says, readjusting his sleeve over his watch. “Sorry.”  
  
“No, no—it’s—crap, I just lose track of time, sometimes. Kids’’ll do that to ya,” Dom laughs a little, padding down the stairs and towards Robert. “Early or late, I’m glad to see you.”  
  
He leans in to kiss Robert hello, a brief, almost chaste bit of business that Dom breaks away from before it has a chance to get out of hand . . . as so many of their kisses do.  
  
“Are these for me?” he asks, and Robert has to follow that sexy squint before he remembers the flowers in his hand. Slightly flustered, he shoves them at Dom, who takes them with a wry smile, and sniffs them.  
  
“Wow,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment, clearly lost in the scent. “I’ve never smelled anything like them. . . .”  
  
Robert swallows, his mouth gone dry at the sight of his sort-of-boyfriend so enrapt in the orchids. He feels the telltale tingle at the base of his spine that means he’s about to get embarrassingly hard, embarrassingly fast.  
  
So he clears his throat, looks away, and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Of course you haven’t. They’re a rare, ridiculously expensive breed my father commissioned for my mother. Five thousand dollars per stem.”  
  
Dom opens those amazing eyes and smiles, and Robert blushes. He’s forever naming the prices of the things he gives Dom—always tasteful and expensive, and usually accepted with a certain bemusement—and Dom’s forever gazing at him like he finds Robert. . . .  
  
“You’re absolutely adorable, you know,” Dom says, stepping closer, and leaning in to kiss Robert again. This time, it’s much less chaste, and the fingers of his free hand curl in the lapel of Robert’s obscenely expensive suit.  
  
Robert moans a little, putting his hands on Dom’s hips and pulling him closer, till they’re flush against each other. They’re not hard, yet, but it’s a foregone conclusion—at least in Robert’s case—if they don’t stop soon.  
  
Indeed, as if reading his mind, Dom breaks the kiss with a soft chuckle.  
  
“Is it wrong that I want to fuck you against your front door?” Robert whispers, and Dom chuckles again.  
  
“I dunno. Is it wrong that I want you to?” Dom gives him another brief tease of a kiss then smoothes his lapel and steps back. He’s breathing a bit faster than he was before and his cheeks are flushed. Not as much as Robert’s probably are, but then Dom’s flush is so much lovelier.  
  
Robert clears his throat again. “So, um, what—“  
  
Just then, another scream comes from upstairs. Dom sighs and rolls his eyes, shoving the orchids back at Robert.  
  
“Would you mind hanging out down here while I sort my kids out? Thanks, the living room is right there—have a seat.” Then Dom’s taking the steps two at a time, his long, narrow feet pad-slapping on the dark wood.  
  
“Okay,” Robert says to the empty hallway.  
  
The living room turns out to be the first entryway in the hall. It is, bluntly put, a disaster area of toys and mostly folded laundry. But somewhere, under the chaos of family life, is tasteful, baroque furniture—hints of an Oriental rug, even a fireplace, though it looks like it hasn’t seen use in some time. The mantle above it is crammed with framed photos of the children.  
  
Sighing as he steps over trucks, Legos, dolls, and brightly-colored books, Robert makes his way to the sofa, on which the mostly folded laundry lays, and sits the flowers next to the basket containing painfully patterned children’s clothing. He wonders if he should start folding to help out . . . then wonders if that would be insulting to Dom. . . .  
  
In the end, he simply picks up the flowers and steps over more toys, toward a bookshelf containing more books than Robert would’ve expected, since Dom’s always claiming he’s “not much of a reader, anymore.”  
  
Laying the flowers on a nearby chair—next to a Raggedy Andy doll that’s clearly seen better days—Robert bends to take a look at some of the titles.  
  
A few minutes spent perusing tells him that Dom is—or was—heavily into psychology and the subconscious. And dreams. There are more books on dreaming than anything else, it seems. Though, peppered amongst the books on dreaming are a few children’s books, and some books on childcare. There’s also a huge, leather-bound book, the spine of which reads  _La Sainte Bible_  
  
Robert almost takes it out—clearly it’s a family bible—but then doesn’t. Without permission, it’d be like snooping through Dom’s life. And if Dom is one thing, besides effortlessly enigmatic, it’s _private_. Just him trusting Robert around his kids is a huge step, one that Robert thinks may be Dom’s way of making whatever it is they have official, and exclusive.  
  
If so, he’s not about to get caught doing anything to make Dom regret his decision.  
  
Orchids forgotten—their layman’s name is  _Lovely Saras_ —Robert drifts over to the fireplace and the mantle.  
  
There are, as he’d noticed before, many pictures of the children. The foremost pictures show them with Dom, smiling or laughin,g at the beach, at what can only be Disneyland, at other amusements parks and outdoorsy destinations. The children themselves are beautiful—blond, like their father, slim and slightly small for their ages. James is a carbon copy of Dom, down to the squint. So is Phillippa,  _Pippa_ , but for her eyes . . . her eyes, even in the happier pictures, are slightly grave, haunting and a little haunted—a dove-soft grey-blue that reminds Robert of an overcast sky.  
  
And behind these pictures are older ones, in which the children are noticeably younger. Grinning James hasn’t got all his teeth yet, and Pippa’s still-solemn eyes are free of their shadowy gravity. In some of these pictures, the children are with an older couple that must be their grandparents—not Dom’s parents, Robert knows. Dom’s parents are long dead.  
  
Mixed in with these pictures are some baby pictures, and other pictures in which the children are toddlers, and being held by the most beautiful woman Robert has ever laid eyes on.  
  
Her eyes are the same haunting, haunted grey-blue as Pippa’s, though her bright, unreserved smile was clearly inherited by James.  
  
 _This must be Mallorie_ , Robert thinks, unconsciously reaching for one of the pictures in which Mallorie is  _not_  smiling, but instead looking off to her left, her face distracted and melancholy. The resemblance here to Pippa is stronger than ever, though hopefully Pippa will never wear the woe and  _age_  her mother seems to in this photo. . . .  
  
“Okay!”  
  
Startled, Robert looks around to see Dom standing there with a wide-eyed Pippa at his side and carrying a giggling James under one arm. “These hellions are my children, James and Phillippa. Kids, this is my special friend, Mr. Fischer.”  
  
Robert steps toward Dom and the children, hand extended for shaking, and nearly falls on his face thanks to a strategically placed Hess truck. As it is, he manages to fall to the side, onto the sofa. And the laundry basket, which tips over, spilling the laundry, and himself onto the floor.  
  
Which James finds hilarious.  
  
Turning positively  _crimson_ , Robert blinks up at Dom, who helps him to his feet with a mumbled _upsa-daisy_. Once he’s steady, Dom smiles apologetically. “Sorry, this place is a mess. It usually is on Saturday.”  
  
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Robert says breathlessly, laughing the matter off. “No harm, no foul.”  
  
(Robert only has the vaguest idea of what that means. Only that it may have something to do with basketball, of which he knows Dom is a huge fan and Robert is very much  _not_.)  
  
“Is that so?” Dom brushes a tendril of hair off of Robert’s forehead and takes his hand. “Come on. Let’s try that introduction again. This time, without the stunts.”  
  
Dom carefully leads Robert over to the children—James is still giggling, and Pippa looks at Robert doubtfully, as if expecting another pratfall at any second.  
  
“James, when someone falls and could’ve hurt themselves, that’s not funny,” Dom admonishes, letting go of Robert’s hand so he can pick up a still giggling James.  
  
“Yes it is, Daddy,” James insists, squinting at Robert. “I’m sorry my truck made you fall, Mr. Fischer. Do you need a hug?”  
  
“Uh.” Robert glances at Dom, who shrugs a little, leaving him to find his own way out of it. Robert sighs. “No, I don’t need a hug . . . though I  _will_  take a handshake.”  
  
“’Kay.” James holds out his small hand and Robert takes it solemnly, pumping it once, gently. Though when he tries to let go, he discovers how sticky a child’s hand can be.  
  
“Phillippa? Would you like to come shake Mr. Fischer’s hand?” Dom holds out a hand to her, and she steps forward shyly to take it. The other one she holds out to Robert, who steals himself for yet another sticky grip.  
  
But her hand is cool and clean. He pumps it twice, also gently, and she smiles up at him.  
  
“Everyone calls me ‘Pippa,’” she says quietly, brushing grown-out bangs off her face.  
  
“Well, everyone calls me ‘Robert.’” Robert returns Pippa’s smile hesitantly—he really has next to no experience with children, especially ones so young; eight and five, according to Dom.  
  
Everyone stands there smiling at each other for a minute, till James starts fidgeting. Dom puts him down, and the first thing he does is grab the truck that’d nearly killed Robert. He holds it out to Robert proudly.  
  
“Wanna play trucks?” he offers, and Dom laughs and tilts his head curiously, as if waiting to hear what Robert will say.  
  
If this is some kind of test, Robert is completely unprepared. But he soldiers on, anyway, as always. “Well, sure. I guess I could play trucks for a little while. . . .”  
  
“Good,” Dom says, mussing James’s thick thatch of hair. “That’ll give me a chance to put on my grown-up clothes. You don’t mind watching them for a few minutes, do you?”  
  
“Uh, no?”  
  
“Good,” Dom says again, his gaze flicking over Robert lazily. “You’re such a  _special_  friend, Robert.”  
  
Ignoring that tingle—this is  _so_  not the time—Robert clears his throat again. “I try, Dom.”  
  
Quirking one eyebrow, Dom’s gives Robert another once-over. “And it’s very appreciated. Hopefully I’ll get to show you just how much, later.”  
  
“I’ll hold you to that,” Robert murmurs as Dom carefully makes his way out of the livingroom. Robert watches him wistfully—watches that perfect ass until it’s gone.  
  
Then he feels eyes on him. Not James’s, who’s already crashing his truck into Robert’s thousand dollar Italian loafer and rumbling: “Ultimate demolition!” in a surprisingly deep announcer-style voice.  
  
No, the eyes on him are Pippa’s, grave and considering.  
  
“So,” Robert says nervously, and Pippa tilts her head just like Dom had.  
  
“Are you dating my Daddy?” she asks and Robert takes this unexpected opportunity to gape like an idiot.  
  
“Whuh—um—“ he stammers, and Pippa points at the flowers.  
  
“You brought him flowers, and you’re wearing really nice clothes, and you look at him weird. You _like_  like him, don’t you?” She folds her hands in front of her and looks him over. Then she smiles her mother’s smile at him. “It’s okay if you do.”  
  
“I—I—“  
  
“Like-like-like!  _Vroom_!”  _Slam_  goes the truck into Robert’s ankle and he yelps, hopping in place for a moment, then toward the couch. He sits heavily on the laundry and crosses his leg to examine his ankle, pushing his trouser leg up and his sock down.  
  
“Damnit—I mean . . . uh, doggone-it,” he says lamely, looking at a small patch of torn skin and the little drops of blood just beginning to well up under it. The children come over to peer down at his ankle, too, James hissing and wincing.  
  
“Gross!” he exclaims, turning pale.  
  
“Look what you did,” Pippa says disdainfully, shoving James’s shoulder and running out of the room. James, meanwhile, stands there looking horrified.  
  
“I’m sorry!” he says quickly, looking up at Robert, then back down at Robert’s ankle. There are tears in his eyes. “Did I break it?”  
  
Robert almost laughs, despite the persistent twinge in his ankle. “Uh, no. Well, you broke skin, but my ankle is fine.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“I’m sure.” Robert nods, and James looks relieved. But only for a moment.  
  
“Do you think Pippa went to get Daddy?”  
  
“I didn’t hear any footsteps going up the stairs,” Robert says hesitantly. Just then, Pippa comes back into the room, holding a neon pink strip. When she gets to Robert, she elbows James aside and peels the backing off the strip.  
  
“It’s a bandaid,” she tells Robert, gently placing the strip over the broken skin, then bending over to press a quick kiss to Robert’s ankle. “The kind with the medicine already on it, so it won’t get infected and the doctors have to cut your foot off.”  
  
“Oh.” Robert tries to smiles in the face of her (morbid) earnestness. “Thank you.”  
  
Pippa smiles, suddenly prettiness and sunshine. “You’re welcome, Robert.” She examines the bandaid to make sure it’s on straight then looks at her brother rather murderously. “Say sorry.”  
  
James cringes away from her. “I already did!”  
  
“Say it again, or I’ll tell Daddy, and he’ll ground you again!”  
  
James looks up at Robert, takes a deep breath, and says: “I’msorryIhurtyouranklepleaseforgivemeanddon’ttellmydaddyorI’llgetgroundedagain!”  
  
Glancing between Pippa’s righteously angry face and James’s miserable one, Robert sighs. “Apology accepted, James, just—don’t do anything like that again, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” James promises, relieved once more. At least until Pippa pinches his arm till he whines.  
  
“He’s Daddy’s boyfriend, so you have to be nice to him.”  
  
“He is?” James gapes at Robert, who blushes, uncrossing his leg and standing up. He puts his hands in his pocket and tries to think of a way to change the subject. Unfortunately his old standby, the stock market, just won’t cut it, in this case.  
  
“Are you my Daddy’s boyfriend?” James asks, wide-eyed and tugging on Robert’s trouser-leg. “Hugging and kissing and everything?”  
  
“Well, I—“  
  
“’Cause I didn’t know Daddy likes boys,” James says doubtfully. Pippa pinches him again, and this time he punches her in the arm. “Stop pinching meeeee!”  
  
“I’ll stop when you stop being stupid!”  
  
“Okay, okay, you two—“ Robert kneels in front of the pair, who’re now in some sort of small-child-shoving-match. It’s not going well for James, who’s only two-thirds Pippa’s height. “Stop pushing each other, and listen to me.”  
  
When they actually obey him, turning two sets of huge, attentive eyes on Robert, he’s so surprised, what he was about to say goes straight out of his mind. And he’s  _definitely_  not about to go into the details of his relationship with their father.  
  
“Um.” He shakes his head, laughing a little. He says the first thing that pops into his head. “Can I have a hug?”  
  
Without hesitation, James launches himself forward, his small arms wrapping around Robert’s neck. He smells like fruit juice and fabric softener.  
  
Stepping forward with a bit more reserve, Pippa hugs him, too, her slightly longer arms overlapping James’s. She smells like cinnamon and bubblegum.  
  
Surprised to have gotten a yes, let alone such a fervent one, Robert carefully hugs them back, blown away by their trust.  
  
 _They’re so tiny,_  he thinks, as their fragile-sturdy bodies press against his sides.  _I never knew children were so tiny_.  
  
He doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until he opens them, and sees Dom standing in the entryway, wearing dark trousers, a grey jacket and a beige button-down with no tie.  
  
He’s smiling in that way that means he thinks Robert is adorable.  
  
Robert smiles haplessly and shrugs a little. Dom rolls his eyes and claps his hands together once. “Alright, guys, time to go to Mrs. Alpert’s.”  
  
James immediately pulls out of Robert’s arms, hugs forgotten. “’Kay, lemme get my backpack!” He darts around Dom on his way out of the room. His loud, stomping footsteps can be heard all the way to his room.  
  
“Me, too!” Pippa says, letting go of Robert with one final squeeze. Then she’s off in a much quieter fashion, leaving Robert and Dom alone.  
  
Standing up and doing his best not to turn red, Robert shrugs again. “So . . . how long have you been standing there?”  
  
“Long enough, you big softie,” Dom accuses, laughing. Robert steps carefully over toys until he’s in Dom’s personal space. Once there, he puts his hands on Dom’s waist and pulls him close.  
  
“You won’t be saying that when I’ve got you pinned against your front door, later,” he murmurs, leaning in to nip at Dom’s ear lobe. Dom’s arms wind around his neck, loose and heavy. “I’m going to fuck you cross-eyed.”  
  
“Is that a threat?”  
  
“It’s a promise.”  
  
Dom grins and kisses Robert, slow and easy. At least until Robert’s hands wander around to his ass; then the kiss becomes something else altogether. Something yearning and breathless.  
  
“Fuck,” Dom exhales, breaking the kiss to lean his forehead against Robert’s.  
  
“That’s right. Against your front door, no less.” Robert sighs happily. “I can’t wait.”  
  
Dom groans. “Wanna skip  _L’Monde_ , then, and just come back here, after we drop the kids off? We can order out afterwards, or . . . I can even make you lunch.” He smiles, a bit nonplussed. “If you don’t mind peanut butter and jelly, that is. I haven’t had a chance to go grocery shopping.”  
  
Robert grins. He hasn’t had peanut butter and jelly since . . . never.  
  
“Peanut butter and jelly sounds good, to me,” he agrees, and that smile widens.  
  
“You’d agree to just about anything to get in my pants, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“That depends on whether or not it’s working.” Robert raises his eyebrows questioningly. “So is it?”  
  
“Not at all.” Dom rolls his eyes, and tightens his arms around Robert’s neck until their faces are barely half an inch apart. “And even if it was, I wouldn’t subject you to PB&J. I like you far too much for that. So we can order pizza.”  
  
“Spoil me, why don’t you?”  
  
They’re about to kiss again when two sets of footsteps thunder down the stairs. Reluctantly they let go of each other, just in time for James to round the corner, backpack on his back, his arms held out to be picked up, which Dom does. Pippa, meanwhile, takes Robert’s hand like she’s been doing it for years.  
  
“Ready?” Dom asks the kids, but his eyes are on Robert, as solemn as Pippa’s.  
  
“Yes!” James crows at the top of his lungs.  
  
“Ready, Daddy,” Pippa says, tugging on Robert’s hand and leading him to the door. “C’mon, Robert.”  
  
“Right.” With a grin for Dom, Robert lets himself be pulled thither, down the hall and to the door. Bright golden sunshine floods the dim hallway. “I guess I’m ready, too! C’mon, Dom!”  
  
“Yeah, let’s  _go_ , Daddy!” James leans back so hard, he nearly tips himself out of his father’s embrace. He laughs when Dom mock-growls and calls him a knucklehead.  
  
Then, tucking his wriggling, giggling son under his arm like a football, Dom follows Pippa and Robert out into the afternoon sunshine.


End file.
